When I was in high school, I made sandwiches for Subway Sandwiches and Salads. I started my career in sandwich art at Store 10882, but I really shined at Store 3035. I transferred there as part of a reorganization of that store. They were slowly eliminating some terrible workers one by one, as just (enough) cause arose, and replacing them mostly with workers from other stores. I came over about halfway through the transition.
One of my eliminated coworkers was a girl named Robin. She got in trouble for cursing at a customer. One week she was on the schedule; the next week, she wasn’t. She called me at work the day the schedule came out and asked what her hours were. I told her she wasn’t on the schedule, and she asked me, rather politely, “Why the f--- not??” I told her she should probably call our district manager, Dwight Schrute.
The next time I saw her was payday. When Robin asked for her paycheck, I informed her of Subway’s policy of holding the final paycheck until the entire uniform had been returned. She asked me why in three words that start with w, t, and f, respectively, and I confessed ignorance. “Whatever,” she agreed and promised to bring her uniform back. I held on to her $67-check.
A few minutes later, Robin returned with a green Subway shirt crumpled up like a snowball with a rock inside. She pegged me with it, explaining, “There’s your f---ing piece of s--- uni-f---ing-form. G--d--- I hate this f---ing s---hole. Gimme my f---ing paycheck.” I complied with her request and wished her happy trails.
Before today, that was my only real experience with existential process of termination.